The Releasing Fire
by Spencer5460
Summary: Written as a Secret Santa Gift for Matsir


**The Releasing Fire**

December 22, 1979; Somewhere along Venice Beach

"What are we doing _here_?" Hutch asked as his partner turned down the road leading to the beach. Not to the nicely groomed beach, where the health nuts tortured their calves as they pumped through the sand and sunbathers cooked to a golden brown. No, this bumpy road - more like a path really - led to the section of shoreline forgotten by all but rocks and driftwood.

"Celebratin' the holidays." Starsky brought the Torino to a stop and hopped out.

"You know I don't celebrate holidays." Hutch made no move to join him.

"I know, I know. 'Euphoric sentimentalism,' and all that." Undeterred, Starsky marched around to the trunk and inserted the key. The trunk sprung open with enthusiasm. Starsky loaded his arms with several pieces of wood in various sizes, then walked around to the passenger side of the car with his burden and stared down his partner. "Maybe you just don't know what to celebrate. Shut the trunk and follow me."

He trudged off without giving Hutch a backward glance.

Hutch watched from the car with a combination of natural obstinacy yet quiet pleasure as Starsky dropped the bundle a few hundred feet away. It was an effort that would have been impossible for the man a few months ago. He saw him scuff out a small depression in the sand with his Adidas, then kneel down to arrange the wood in the shape of a teepee.

It only took a few minutes for curiosity to win Hutch over, the way it always did when it came to Starsky. He climbed out of the Torino, pressed the trunk down with a click and trailed after him, moving only as fast as propriety required.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hutch asked.

"Buildin' a fire." Starsky was up now, roaming around collecting scraps of driftwood and even pieces of flammable trash.

"I can see that. But why?"

"To celebrate the Winter Solstice – which just happens to be tonight. The longest night of the year." Starsky came back with his hands full of kindling material and crouched down to stuff it in between the sides of the teepee. Then he drew out a matchbook from the pocket of his leather jacket. "We're gonna have a releasin' ceremony."

Hutch moved to stand over him, flipping the collar of his own leather jacket to the evening air. The sun was just beginning to kneel on the pink carpet of the horizon, changing the blue December sky to deep violet.

"A what?"

"A releasin' ceremony." Starsky struck a match and tossed it carefully in the structure, watching with satisfaction as small flames appeared to lick up the sides.

"Where did you find out about that? In the same stupid book about vampire charms and big foot that you read in the john?"

Starsky leaned back on his heels. A mask fell over his face along with the first shadows of the night. His lips tightened and the spark in his eyes diminished. It was the look that told Hutch he had pushed him just a little too far.

"Yeah, I admit I did some research." Starsky replied as he added another match to the fledgling flame. "I wanted to find out what the Nordic people did for holidays. You know, _your_ people." He glared up at him then for emphasis.

Hutch was suitably stung. He crouched down next to Starsky and laid a hand on his arm, the touch warmer than any flame. "Sorry," he said simply. "Tell me what you found out."

"Well, a long time ago people would build bonfires on the night of the Winter Solstice to call the sun back to the sky and encourage it to shine brighter."

The standoff quickly over, both settled more comfortably side by side on the ground and watched the fire grow. The wood crackled and sent its glowing messengers into the air. Although now almost too dark to see, they could hear the restless movement of the ocean as it teased the anchored sand.

"I know you and me were raised differently and celebrate different holidays," Starsky continued softly. "And I know holidays aren't much fun for you. I was just tryin' to find something we could celebrate together."

Despite Hutch's disdain for tacky decorations and unappreciated gifts, Starsky's desire to find some way to meet him in the middle was humbling. Any further sarcasm stuck in his throat, threatening to strangle him.

"When it all comes down to it, Hutch, no matter what you believe, the holidays are a time to kinda step back and look at where we've been and where we're goin'. To re-set our priorities." Starsky's blue eyes glowed with gold in the firelight. "To be with the people we love."

Hutch felt his blood rush to his ears. Whoever thought he was more erudite than his partner was an idiot.

"The Winter Solstice is supposed ta be the best time ta get rid a' all the junk that holds us back. We can write down what we want to release, then throw what we wrote in the fire. That way we can let go and move ahead to what's waitin' for us, instead of being bogged down in the past. A 'releasin' ceremony.' See?"

Starsky shifted to pull a small spiral-bound pad of paper and pencil stub from his pocket while Hutch stared into the confined blaze. He couldn't deny it was mesmerizing, comforting. Science said life had crawled its way out from the sea. But sometimes he thought he and Starsky must have leaped together like sparks from a fire and, like the old saying, into the frying pan.

"I don't know, Starsk. I feel kind of silly. I wouldn't know what to write." Hutch picked up a stick that had yet to be touched by flame and poked at the structure that was slowing starting to collapse in on itself. Pulsing lights of yellow, amber and gold.

"Here," Starsky said. "I'll show ya." He flipped open the little pad. It was one he carried around to jot down notes at crime scenes. He scratched on the paper with the stub for a few seconds then ripped it from the spiral rings and threw it into the fire. It was instantly consumed.

"What did you write?" Hutch asked hesitantly. There were few secrets between them, but he still wondered just how much more of his soul his partner was willing to share.

"My anger at my pop for gettin' himself killed. My feelin' _guilty_ for bein' angry at him." Starsky's words hung in the cool air before drifting off along with the smoke. He sucked in a breath. "My wantin' revenge on George Prudholm."

"There's nothing wrong with _that,_ Starsk."

"No, I mean, like wantin' to squeeze his thick neck 'til his eyes pop – wantin' to feel his blood run through my fingers. That makes me no better than him." The dark head wilted.

Hutch put his hand on the back of his neck, threading his fingers through curls warm from the soft leather collar. _No, you're worlds apart from him_ , he thought to himself.

Starsky allowed his partner's touch to linger a few seconds more before he broke away. "Now it's your turn." He handed over the pad and little pencil.

Hutch reluctantly removed his hand to take the writing tools. His fingers hovered over the scrap of paper, stiff as a mannequin's, unsure of how to start. He looked at Starsky illuminated by the flames – so patient, so accepting of everyone's flaws, even his own - and began to write.

He started with Vanessa and bitterness, then added the name of Jeannie and the word 'regret.' He listed John Colby's betrayal and his disillusionment with Iron Mike. He added the name of Artie Solkin, followed by 'disgust.' Then, with fingers gripping the pencil so tightly they ached, he carved out 'Gunther' and 'rage' in capital letters he underlined until the graphite sliced a tear through the paper.

Finally he was done. Then, following Starsky's example, he ripped the paper from the spiral binder and tossed it into the fire. They watched as all the wasted energy and emotion curled in on itself and turned into embers that floated up and disappeared in the dark.

Then they celebrated until the longest night was over.


End file.
